She began to understand. She began to genuinely regret spying upon him. It would be a long time, if ever, before she would be able to forget what she had seen.
“But now, because of your foolish, irrevocable behavior, Daisy will be in bed with us, too, won’t she?”
Francesca suddenly wanted to cry. “I never thought—”
“No, you did not.”
“But it will only be a memory.”
“One that taints the many moments we will share.”
“But what about all of your memories?” she cried. “Won’t they disturb you at an inopportune time?”
He rolled his eyes. “I never think about the women I have bedded, Francesca. Each and every one has been and remains meaningless to me.”
She stared, and elation crept over her, slowly but surely. “Even Daisy?”
“Even Daisy,” he said. He began to smile, then wiped his expression clean, as if he refused to bend, and he took her hand and pulled her into his arms. “How can any woman, even Daisy, compare to you?” he asked, his tone finally warming.
“Quite easily, I fear,” she said, but she was smiling, and their eyes met and held. “Will you forgive me?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said, but humor had crept into his tone. “I can see that the course of our marriage will be a rocky road indeed.”
“I can accept tomorrow,” she said, and she laid her cheek on his chest. Instantly his hand stroked over her coiffed hair.
Desire renewed itself. “Can we seal our bargain with a kiss?” she whispered, looking up.
He gazed down at her, tender, amused. “You saw everything ?”
She nodded, blushing now. “I saw everything, Hart, every single thing.”
He stared down at her thoughtfully. Francesca almost held her breath, wondering what to expect. It was not his next words.
“So your education begins.”
In the entry hall, Rourke and Sarah paused, the doorman taking Sarah’s coat. Sarah thanked him, acutely aware of Rourke behind her, and said, “You don’t have to wait up for me, Henry. I will lock the front door when Rourke leaves.”
“Thank you, Miss Channing, and good night,” Henry said, walking out.
Leaving her alone with a stranger.
“I hope you enjoyed the evening,” Rourke said rather distractedly. He was glancing out the window by the front door. Sarah wondered why, and she wondered if he would now leave. But of course he had to leave, as Hart and Francesca were outside in the carriage, waiting for him.
“The evening was very enjoyable, and I am glad Mr. Hart is buying that Levitan. It is splendid.” She became excited merely recalling the Russian landscape.
Rourke stepped closer to the window, as if he had not heard her. “Did Bragg withdraw the roundsmen? I do not see a single police officer anywhere.”
Sarah tensed. “I have no idea,” she said, moving to his side so she could look outside, too. Rourke was right. No police officer was in sight. And standing so close to Rourke, she felt smaller and skinnier than ever. She stepped back, away from him. “He must have dismissed them. You yourself said I am not in danger and that Miss Conway was the killer’s real target.”
He met her gaze, and even though he smiled, she saw how serious his eyes were. “Yes, I believe that, but until the killer has been apprehended, I think my brother should leave his men here.”
“Well, your brother knows what he is about.” Sarah was brisk now. It was simply too awkward being alone with Rourke at such a late hour. He was simply too much for her to manage—too charismatic, too attractive—he overwhelmed her space; he reminded her of how plain and thin she was. She was sorry she had told Henry to go off to bed, but she always hated keeping the servants up. “It is late. I must get up early and prepare for the sketches I will do when Francesca arrives.” She forced a smile—it felt terribly awkward.
But he smiled back at her, a smile that brought forth both of his dimples and creased the corners of his eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” It was almost as if he were teasing.
“Of course not,” she said tersely, a lie.
“I am teasing, Sarah,” he sighed. Then, “You don’t like me, do you?”
She was stunned by his bluntness. “I hardly know you, Rourke. It would be premature for me to either like or dislike you, don’t you agree?”
“No, actually, I don’t. I feel that it is easy to get a sense of a stranger upon a first meeting. I feel that somehow I must have offended you, yet the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I have not.” He waited, staring, his smile gone.
“You haven’t offended me,” she said, feeling miserable and avoiding his gaze. “You saved my life.”
“You weren’t dying. Sarah, do I make you uncomfortable?”
She looked at him. “Yes.”
He stared, his gaze searching.
She said, “I think I should retire now.”
He caught her by the arm. “Are you running away?”
“Of course not!” But she was and they both knew it.
“I think you are running away from me, but I do not know why.” He was reflective. “You have no trouble talking to Hart.”
Sarah bit her lower lip, suddenly desperate that she run. “Good night, Rourke.” She was firm.
But his regard changed as he studied her. “Could it be that you find a single, available gentleman like myself threatening?”
“That is absurd. I am engaged, Mr. Bragg, or have you forgotten?”
He suddenly smiled ruefully. “I actually did forget. For an instant.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I am sorry for pressing you.”
She was trembling. “Good night,” she said again, shaken to the core. He knew the truth. She must avoid him now at all costs.
“I do not wish to argue with you,” he said softly.
“We do not know one another well enough to argue. Good night.” She turned and this time hurried down the hall, as quickly as she could without actually running.
But she strained to hear him leave as she did so, and she did not hear his footsteps or the front door closing—which she would have to go back to lock. Then she decided it did not matter if he wished to stand there alone in the darkly lit foyer. Besides, he would go in another moment or so.
If only she did not feel guilty for being so terribly rude. What was wrong with her?
She shuddered. Everything was wrong, she thought, suddenly despondent. She was about to marry a man she liked but did not love; her studio had been destroyed; she had nightmares now, every night, about the intruder. And Rourke haunted her thoughts, waking and not, no matter how she told herself that he did not.
Sarah forced her thoughts to change—she had work to do. The corridor was lit at intervals by sconces. The door to her studio remained firmly closed. The police had given her permission to clean it up yesterday, and now Sarah opened the door, knowing the staff had turned the shambles back into a normal, well-kept room. She reached for the lamp on the side table by the door.
A large male hand clamped down on her mouth.
Sarah tried to scream, uselessly.
And terror overcame her. Her worst nightmare had come true—he had come back!
He pulled her back against his hard, aroused body. He laughed and whispered obscenities in her ear. She struggled, the smell of paint suffocating, but her struggles only aroused him more. He began to tell her what he wished to do to her. He was going to fuck her, again and again, and then, when the moment was right, he would take the stocking and pull it tight. . . .
Sarah struggled against him, the recollection of that first attack assailing her, and too late she wished she had not pretended that it hadn’t happened—she wished she had told the truth.
“Little whore, did you really think I’d forget you?” he whispered, grinding his erection against her buttocks.
She couldn’t breathe. His hands were large and strong on her throat, and like vises, tightening and tightening. Blackness was explo
ding in her brain. Fireworks followed. He removed his hand from her mouth and she gasped for air, precious air. . . . Silk whispered around her throat.
And she knew it was the end.
“Get off of her!” Rourke screamed.
The man froze, and then she was free.
Sarah fell against the wall, gasping like a fish out of water, sinking to the floor. She held her burning neck, tears flooding her eyes in response to the pain and the aftermath of terror. Gentle arms pulled her down onto her back. She saw Rourke’s golden eyes, and then he was tipping her head back, his mouth covering hers.
Fear renewed itself; for one moment she was in the throes of confusion, but then she felt and tasted the air he was pushing into her lungs and she sucked it down, again and again, until she could breathe—until she became aware of the taste of his lips, the pressure of his mouth, his hands gently clasping her head, so large, so strong, and so gentle. He ceased his ministrations. Their gazes locked. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
And then she recalled the huge, hard pressure of the man’s penis against her back, the sexual threats whispered in her ear, and she turned her face away, crying out.
“What is it?” Rourke asked softly.
“Get Francesca,” she whispered raggedly.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1902—AFTER MIDNIGHT
FRANCESCA WAS STARING AT Hart, terribly curious as to just what he was thinking, his suggestive comment echoing in her brain. The front door slammed behind her. Footsteps pounded. “Francesca!” Rourke shouted.
All inappropriate thoughts vanished. Francesca whirled in real alarm as Rourke ran up to them. “There has been an attack. Sarah needs you.” He looked at Hart. “Get Rick.”
“Is Sarah all right?” Hart demanded.
“She seems all right, but as she has just survived an attempt at murder, I would prefer to examine her at length before swearing upon a Bible that her health is good,” he said quickly, grabbing Francesca’s arm.
She raced to keep up with him as they ran back to the house. “He was here? Our strangler?”
“Oh yes,” Rourke said grimly, pushing open the front door. “I saw him.”
She stared at him, stumbling down the corridor with him. “Did you recognize him? Was it Hoeltz? Neville? LeFarge?” Too late, she realized Rourke did not know any of those men. “What did he look like?”
Before he could answer, Sarah appeared, staggering up the corridor. Francesca cried out, as Sarah’s face was as white as an imaginary ghost and her throat was mottled with brutal red marks. Rourke broke into a run. “What do you think you are doing?” he scolded, but gently.
“I could not stay in there,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “What if he came back?”
“He isn’t coming back,” Rourke said, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a baby. “Hart has gone to get the police.”
Sarah was making a huge effort to be brave. “You do not have to carry me, Rourke. I can walk.”
“I think that I do,” he said firmly.
Francesca hurried over, clasping Sarah’s shoulder as they walked into the closest room, a grand library. “Why don’t you put her down on the sofa, Rourke? I shall sit with her and you can rouse the staff. We need a fire, water, tea.” Her mind sped. “No, make it a nice Scotch whiskey.”
“My medical bag is at Hart’s,” Rourke said, clearly displeased. “I’ll send a servant to Doctor Finney.” He placed Sarah on the oversize blue sofa as gently as if she might break. Francesca turned on the lamp beside it. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
Sarah looked at him, her face twisted with fear and nerves, yet oddly grim with resolution, too. “Don’t wake Mother. I cannot manage her hysterics now.”
Rourke hesitated.
Francesca sat down beside Sarah and put her arm around her. Sarah was as small and fragile as she looked, she thought with a pang. “Rourke? See if you can quietly rouse just one servant. A maid.”
He gave her an exasperated look that said he’d rouse whomever he stumbled upon.
Sarah said, “The staff who sleep in are on the fourth floor. But the housekeeper has her room behind the kitchen.”
He nodded and left, leaving the door fully open.
Francesca wished he had started the fire. “Are you all right?” she asked, getting up and turning on another lamp. The library remained huge and filled with shadows. Good God, a man could hide behind the draperies, she thought.
“No. I had hoped to start your sketches, Francesca,” Sarah whispered, trailing off.
Francesca felt for her then. “You must tell me what happened.”
“I know.” Sarah gazed at her fearfully. “I cannot discuss this in front of Rourke or anyone else.”
“All right.” She took Sarah’s hands and clasped them tightly. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“He assaulted me from behind. I never saw his face, Francesca.” Sarah started to shake terribly. Tears filled her eyes. “The moment he pushed me to the wall, I knew. I knew it was the same man who had attacked me last week!”
“What?!” Francesca gasped. “You never said you were attacked.”
“I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak about it. It was so horrible that I refused to think about it,” she said tersely.
“I don’t understand,” Francesca gasped.
“I know, for neither do I.” Sarah brushed angrily at a falling tear. “I was so afraid. I think I felt that if I pretended it hadn’t happened, it would somehow be over—somehow, it would be as if it hadn’t happened. I refused to think about it; it is as simple as that.” Her mouth trembled and she met Francesca’s gaze. “I am sorry, Francesca, sorry that I lied to you, of all people. I beg you to understand.”
Francesca thought that she did. “It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.” She swallowed. “He has haunted my dreams, Francesca.”
Francesca hugged her, hard. “You poor dear! But you must tell me what happened, Sarah—both last week and just now. You must tell me everything so we can catch this bastard!”
Sarah nodded grimly, clearly fighting tears. “I found him in my studio, painting on the wall. He saw me and I ran, but he caught me from behind, which is how I hurt my arm. I swear to God, I don’t know how I got free—I think he tripped on something. I ran to my room and hid there. The next morning I found my studio in shambles, and that is when my mother sent you her note asking for your help.”
Francesca caressed Sarah’s back. “Thank God Rourke was here tonight.” And it was the worst twist of fate that Sarah had not gotten a look at the killer.
“He held me against the wall and I could not breathe and I was afraid he would rape me before he broke my neck!” she cried.
It took Francesca a moment to understand. “He was sexually aroused?”
Sarah nodded, her eyes huge, mostly dilated black pupils. “He said he would. He said many horrible and obscene things to me.” She suddenly retched, vomiting on the floor.
Francesca held her as she retched again, several times. Her heart broke for Sarah Channing.
“I am sorry,” Sarah wept now. “Look at what I have done!”
Francesca held her in her arms. “It hardly matters. I shall catch this beast, Sarah, and when we are through, he shall never ever see the light of day again!”
When Sarah had stopped crying, Francesca stood. “Let me clean this up.”
“No! I’ll do it!” Sarah stood unsteadily.
“Sarah—”
“I don’t want to be alone here, not at night.”
“All right,” Francesca said, taking her arm. They started through the huge dark house. Francesca quickly became anxious. It crossed her mind that the killer could be lying in wait for them. She told herself that was absurd, but nevertheless, the house was so silent and so dark. Sarah was as tense. She started at every shadow. “It’s all right,” F
rancesca tried, not quite believing it. Their killer had an agenda now, and Sarah Channing’s murder was on it.
“I just remembered something,” she whispered as they entered the pitch-black dining room.
Francesca fumbled for a light on the table. When it came on she breathed in relief. “What is that?”
“He said that he hadn’t forgotten me, and he called me a little whore.”
Francesca stared, her mind racing. “Can you recall his exact words?”
Sarah shook her head, her nose red now, her eyes tearing again. “I’m sorry. I can’t. But I will never forget the sound of his voice,” she whispered.
Francesca took her hand and they left the dining room. A moment later they were in the huge vaulted kitchen, which was fully lit. Rourke stood at the stove, boiling water, for tea, Francesca supposed. He saw them and started. “What the hell are you two doing wandering around this house by yourselves?”
Francesca let Sarah sink down into a chair at the dining table used by the staff. “Sarah had an accident, and we came for rags to clean it up.”
“I’ll do that,” the housekeeper said, appearing in her gray dress, her hair still in one long gray braid. “Miss Channing, thank God you are all right!”
Sarah nodded but did not speak.
“Mrs. Brown,” Rourke said, “bring us a nice glass of port.”
The housekeeper nodded and hurried off.
Rourke came over and laid his palm on Sarah’s forehead. She flinched but met his gaze. “You are warm,” he said.
“I am sick,” she returned. “Why, Francesca? Why has this man accused me of being a whore? Why does he wish to murder me? Why?” she cried.
Francesca sat down beside her. “I simply do not know. Yet,” she added.
Rourke pulled something out of his pocket. “Here,” he said. “Here is some evidence for you.”
Francesca realized he had handed her a lady’s silk stocking. It was torn. “What is this?”
“He was using this to strangle Sarah,” Rourke said. “But considering the marks on her throat, he was using his hands, first.”
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